Counting Scars
by xxbeyondxbirthdayxx
Summary: why do I often look at my scar? Why so much staring in the mirror, why so much tracing the lines of the wrinkled area with the tip of my finger? Because I count. One by one, everyday, I count. And everyday I know that one is missing. MELLO POV.


_**Note:** I'm supposed to be writing Lionheart 10, then go on with Lithium, and what am I doing? Writing a oneshot!  
I won't blame my muse though, it's better than having writer's block, right?  
Actually, Lionheart 10 will be out tomorrow as planned with the daily update I promised, and Lithium updated once I finish Lionheart, this hasn't changed, but I still have another oneshot waiting in a corner of my head that will probably be out between the end of Lionheart and the next chapter of Lithium, and even if I don't plan to start with Stay Tuned, my next long multichaptered fic, I already have a short multichaptered fic ready to pop out anytime soon. Gah, brain cells, osuwari!  


* * *

_I don't think much of my facial scar. I don't feel uglier because of it, nor do I think it makes me more of a badass. What could make me more badass than I already am, after all? I've never needed anything to look scarier, stronger, _manlier_.  
And being a pretty face is bullshit to me. Some think I used my handsomeness to my advantage, to climb the steps to the top of the Mafia. Really? You don't take any step by being pretty or offering your body. Truth is, mobs would die before they admit they fucked a guy, and you don't have to jump women, they're nothing, in the Mafia. You're not gay, in the Mafia.

And even without that reason, which is good enough by itself, being a pretty face is even more bullshit to me, because as long as my face is to Matt's likings, then I could as well have two noses or be a cyclop, I don't give a fuck what I look like.

No, my scar isn't my special brand of Mello-ness. Nor does it remind me of the explosion or how I almost died, or the excruciating pain that lasted for days that even me had difficulties to handle. It's nothing more than another mark on my body, like the many cuts and stitches leftovers my skin still shows, on my back, arms, legs, feet, hands.  
It could have taken my whole face, my only concern is that I'd still be able to see, and probably use my mouth, so I can still go on chocolate. Yeah, it would suck without the chocolate.

So why do I often look at my scar? Why so much staring in the mirror, why so much tracing the lines of the wrinkled area with the tip of my finger? Because I count.  
One by one, everyday, I count.  
And everyday I know that one is missing.

I count the line for the day I met Matt at Wammy's and broke his GameBoy.  
I add one for the day I shoved him so hard I practically threw him by the window after he had stolen my chocolate and he didn't die only because a tree slowed down his fall.  
I include one for everytime I punched him without a reason.  
I reckon all the ones for everytime I took out my hatred for Near on Matt, each time the brat was number one, and me, still number two.  
I acknowledge the groove for the day I left him behind, running away like a thief in the night. Like a thief, yes. Because I stole his sanity when I left, and I'm not even sure I gave it back as for today.

I had counted on Matt's heavy sleep to sneak out of the room with the bag I had hidden under my bed without him to notice. I did it fast, not because I was afraid he would wake up, because I prayed that he would. I just knew that if I had let myself dwell on what I was doing, I would have faltered. Maybe I would just have stayed at the orphanage with Matt and played games with him until we were either killed by Kira or until we were old and decrepit.  
But I kept contact with Roger. It wasn't difficult to convince the old man, greediness had always been his weak point. And giving Roger the opportunity to report me, raw and cruel, how Matt went down to hell, little by little, each tiny details making the old fart's voice on the phone tremble with delight, of hurting me, but most of all of being able to witness a child's slow agony, made me feel guilt like I had never felt it.  
The bastard even went so far as to send me pictures. The day I got them, I killed Roger. Although I was the one responsible for Matt's state. But I had always been one to take out my anger on others after all, it wouldn't change...

Matt had become a skeleton, his long hair that haven't seen scissors for a long time (two years and fifty-three days, to be exact) were entangled and greasy, and I would have almost laughed at the proof under my eyes that Matt was totally beardless if I hadn't cried for the first time in my life. Because more than what he looked like, I could see the syringes scattered around him, the burnt spoon, and a bag of white powder. I knew that Roger had provided this. And even if he hadn't, he had known, and let Matt do drugs.  
I was responsible, of course I was. But that didn't mean people at Wammy's had to let him do.  
Hmm... who am I fooling? No one would be able to stop Matt. Even I could never influence him, make him stop playing games, go outside... not even me, although I, by what I could see on the pictures, was someone important to him.  
He was to me, and I suddenly had the proof that he reciprocated the feeling. Not that I hadn't known, but I had denied, it was easier to leave, if I denied, and I had almost convinced myself.  
Because if the someone you consider important (ok, love) doesn't feel the same, then you don't leave and live with regrets and what ifs. You just tell yourself that this special someone will be ok, and even better without you, and you do your own stuff and try to forget. You don't torture yourself every night with dreams of what could've been and how it would be to kiss him and hold him and make love to him because you know he loved you too and you fucking left him behind.

So I trace the deepest red line for the hell I've put him through.  
And I estimate a thousand of these little brownish wrinkles to counterbalance the many times the needle entered the vein and poisoned him.  
And I must probably score a thousand more for marching across the orphanage that same day I shot Roger, grabbing a bag, shoving all of Matt's belongings in, and pulling him by the hand out of that place, and back into my life. Into my own hell, with all the risks of dying inherent to the life I was living and that I would share with him.

Because I didn't have a reason to keep him away from me and the Mafia anymore.  
He was already dying, I was just changing the means.

But I didn't expect him to come alive. He went through withdrawal symptoms without a word, without a sound. I saw him sweat, vomit, shake from cold, have fever, nightmares, toss and turn, unable to sleep. But not once did he complain or try to go back to his old habits, he suffered with a _smile_.

And when what could've been became what was, when he kissed me and held me and made love to me and that I knew that he was ok _with_ me, I felt pride for the first time of my life.  
And I didn't need to be first, I didn't need to beat Near, because I doubted the pride of being first to stop Kira would equal what I was feeling right now.  
But being the stubborn guy I am, I always finish what I start, so we kept on tracking Kira nonetheless.

So I look at the line above my eye, the one replacing my eyebrow, this one counts for the worry I gave him when I blew myself with the hideout.  
I judge the one along my jawline to be adequate for all he's been through to save me, heal me, the lies, the stealth, the robbery of a chemist' with my own gun to get enough material to cure third degree burns and the overall help when I couldn't even eat alone or go to the toilets without his physical support.

And then I'm done. There's no scarred place left that I can count, and I lack the one for the day I went back to business, when I had healed enough to leave the apartment again and resume my activities with the Mafia, and that Matt cried, because he couldn't stand the idea of me being killed, like I nearly was in the explosion.  
And even if I was unable to leave the apartment that day, and that this time, I left behind what was not important, instead of abandoning what mattered the most... I still feel the guilt of giving him, my treasure, my reason of living, the impression that I would, in all consciousness, risk my life again for something else than _him_.

So I did something that left Near with days of trying to figure out why I did that, and I'm not even sure that, as for today, he understood. He's always been first, but so much for being a genius... Near doesn't know what people do for love. They don't teach that, at Wammy's.  
But Matt taught me.  
So I killed everyone in the Mafia. There was no one alive anymore after my last visit in the hideout, and I made sure to erase anyone that could be a threat. I'm not one for dying for people, like I said, I always take it out on others...  
And I let Near do the dirty job with Kira, I wasn't concerned anymore. I didn't _feel _concerned anymore.

And we settled happily in a cosy little apartment situated close to Notre Dame de Paris, between the beautiful cathedral which top we could see if we bent as far as we could to the left of our balcony, and the borders of the Seine. No need to say that since we moved in Paris, the game store at the corner of our street can make a living with only Matt as a customer.  
Oh, I was happy too with the local shops, Leonidas, Jeff de Bruges, Paul, Fauchon, and french pastries all around the place...

I recover my senses from my reverie as I hear the door open.  
And then Matt enters the bathroom, and he smiles, so I turn around from the mirror, and I smile back.  
He traces the contours of my lips, his fingertip resting at the corner of my mouth then caressing my right cheek upward to the tiny dimple I have there when I smile, and he says it. Like he always do.  
"And this one for one more happy day with you."

No, I don't think much of my scar, in terms of physical attraction or scariness, or whatever it could make me look like.  
I only think it's fair that fate marred me, for the eyes of everyone to see, with as many tortuous grooves as Matt carries in his soul, just so I don't forget what it took to be here today.  
And because no matter how much I've hurt him, I can't count on Matt to think of all the scars I imprinted deep inside of him. He never sees me in any other way than with the eyes of love.


End file.
